Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

Remy turned his back on the angel, and rushed down the corridor to where his friend lay. He was glad to see that the divine fires had been extinguished, but Francis’ entire body was now covered in what looked to be a thick membrane of solidified darkness.

The package of shadow writhed upon the floor, and a razor-thin knife blade suddenly pierced the fabric of night from the inside out, slicing downward. Francis, looking none the worse for wear, crawled out from the incision.

“Okay,” Remy said cautiously, not sure of what he was seeing.

“I know,” Francis replied. “Pretty fucking cool, isn’t it?”

His eyes traveled down the hall to Montagin who leaned against the wall, armored legs splayed out in front of him.

“What’s up with him?” Francis asked.

“He’s drunk,” Remy responded with supreme annoyance. “So drunk that he’s forgotten that he can shrug off the effects of the alcohol with just a thought.”

“That is drunk,” Francis agreed with a slow nod.

Remy started down the hall again. “Montagin,” he called.

The angel’s head was leaned back against the plaster wall, eyes closed. The effects of Remy’s blow were still evident around the angel’s mouth.

“Are you going to hit me again?” Montagin asked. “Or maybe you’ll slay me just like you did all those others during the war.”

Remy had heard enough. He reached down and grabbed hold of the angel’s armored chest-plate, pulling him to his feet. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Do you seriously think getting soused is what we need right now?”

“What’s the use,” the angel groused, his voice still slurring. “They’ve already been here . . . and it’s only a matter of time before they come back and then—”

“Who?” Remy demanded, giving the angel a violent shake.

“Aszrus’ subordinates. They were looking for him but . . .”

Malatesta came around the corner at the end of the hall then, his hands glowing with magickal power.

Francis, Pitiless pistol in hand, reacted with the speed of thought, and aimed.

“Not necessary, Francis,” Remy said. “He’s on our side.”

“Who is he?” Francis asked, hesitating a moment, before lowering the gun’s barrel.

“Works for the Vatican.”

Francis let out a loud laugh. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

“Is everything all right?” Malatesta asked. The power in his hands receded as he took the magick back into himself.

“Everything’s just fucking ducky,” Remy said, annoyed to no end with the entire situation.

“He saved us . . . for now,” Montagin said, looking toward the magick user.

“Do I dare ask?” Remy questioned Malatesta.

“The angels showed up and were demanding to see Aszrus,” he explained. “So I showed them Aszrus.”

“Glamour spell?”

Malatesta nodded. “Yes, and it worked.”

“Nice,” Remy replied. “That’ll buy us some time—not a helluva lot, but enough to put some things together.”

Montagin began to laugh.

“Did I miss something?” Remy released his hold on the angel.

“It’s all quite comical,” Montagin said. “Here we are scrambling to hold on to a secret, and you’ve brought someone who could very well be responsible for the murder right into our midst.” He looked to Francis with a snarl. “I know what you are, Guardian,” Montagin spat. “And I know what your master has done.”

Francis reached into his pocket, and Remy prepared to respond, but his friend simply removed a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, and placed it in his mouth.

“Why don’t you fill me in?” Francis suggested, lighting the smoke with a lighter.

“There’s no smoking in here,” Montagin snapped.

Francis ignored him, taking a huge draft, and blowing a cloud of smoke in the angel’s direction.

Montagin pushed off from the wall threateningly, and Remy pushed him back.

“There will be no more of that,” he told him. “I trust Francis with my life.”

Montagin looked at him incredulously.

“If he says that he or the Morningstar aren’t involved, I believe him.”

“The prince of lies, and you believe him?” Montagin asked with a disgruntled shake of his head. “Why did I ever bother coming to you for help?”

“Maybe it was my low-interest payment plan,” Remy suggested sarcastically.

“Good one,” Francis chuckled, still sucking on the end of his smoke.

“I don’t need any more help from you,” Remy told him, and the fallen angel shrugged.

“And what will we do when the angels return?” Montagin asked. “Another glamour perhaps?”

“You could have a drink,” Francis offered.

Remy gave him the hairiest of eyeballs.

“Go ahead and joke,” Montagin said. “We’ll see how funny it is when full-scale war is declared between Heaven and your master.”

Remy knew that Montagin was right. The angels would definitely return for their general, and Malatesta’s magick would only work for so long.

“We have to move him,” Remy said, thinking out loud.

“Who are we moving?” Francis asked.

“Aszrus. We need to move his body so there’s nothing for them to find when they return.”

“Move the body?” Montagin repeated.

“Do you have a better idea?” Remy asked.

The angel remained quiet.

“Do you have any suggestions as to where we put him?” Malatesta asked. “Perhaps the Vatican could assist.”

“No, that’s all right,” Remy said, the gears turning inside his head. He cast his glance at Francis.

“What?” Francis asked. “Why . . . ?”

And then the expression on the former Guardian’s face told Remy that Francis understood what he was thinking.

“I see,” he said thoughtfully.

“What?” Montagin asked. “What do you see?”

Francis finished the last of his cigarette, squeezing the flame from its tip before slipping the remains into the pocket of his suit coat.

“I’ve got a place.”

Remy looked at Montagin and Malatesta.

“He does,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

They’d been tearing the room apart for hours, but hadn’t found a thing.

“I’ve always wanted to see this,” Francis said, holding up a DVD case for the film Forest Hump .

“You’re not helping,” Remy said.

“And you have no appreciation for fine cinema,” Francis added, tossing the case aside and continuing to rummage through the stacks of magazines littering the floor.

Remy leaned back against the chair and again surveyed the room around him.

“We don’t have time for this,” he said, feeling his frustration rise. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

“Nope,” Francis agreed, as he flipped through some magazines. “But I’m thinking we’ll know it once we see it—at least I hope that’s the case.”

Remy’s eyes drifted over areas that he’d already inspected numerous times, searching for something he might have missed. Then he noticed that Aszrus’ drug box had been returned to the table beside the recliner; Remy dropped his gaze to where Marley had swept it to the floor.

And that was where he saw it: a small corner of white sticking out from beneath the chair.

Remy bent down, pulling the item from where it had slid. It was a photograph—a Polaroid—and it showed a baby, probably a few months old. There was the impression of a thumbprint on the corner of the picture, where it had started to burn from being held.

“What do you have there?” Francis asked. He had found a beer in the dormitory refrigerator and had helped himself.

“I have no idea,” Remy answered, staring at the picture of the baby.